Rage of the Mountain Man by William W. Johnstone

of her progress came when Sally emerged one night for a late supper. She had a soft smile on her face, rather than a downturned mouth and the vertical furrow between her brows. After Jenkins had served them and retired, Smoke gained more assurance from the way Sally dug into her pan-fried catfish. Always a hearty eater, Sally had an appetite this night that brought a smile to his lips.
    “I gather you are gaining ground,” he remarked offhandedly.
    Sally chewed and swallowed a forkful of potatoes and onions and washed it down with a sip of water. “A little,” she replied sparingly. “They’re such a nice couple, Smoke. It would be a shame if Priss persists in her intentions.”
    Smoke stopped eating. “She is serious about leaving him?”
    Sally considered her words a moment. “Not so much as at first. But she’s stubborn, and quite used to having her way.”
    “Can she get their marriage dissolved?” Smoke asked. He had never had occasion to learn about such proceedings.
    With Sally, their vows had meant they’d be together forever.
    “I’m not certain,” Sally answered candidly. “Although, with enough money and influence . . . and her father certainly has that, it can be arranged.” She looked at him pointedly. “Have you spoken to Thomas about it?”
    “Not really. I’m afraid we don’t have a lot in common,” her husband answered.
    “Of course you do. You’re both men,” Sally retorted archly.
    “We’ll have to leave the persuading up to you. Maybe time will work it out.”
    Beyond Topeka, Smoke had reason to recall that conversation. A smirking Sally led Priscilla Henning out of the compartment to sit beside Thomas at the dinner table. The young bride hardly spoke, but she did respond to an effort on his part to make amends.
    “I behaved wretchedly toward you,” he began tentatively.
    Sally cut her eyes to Smoke, her expression one of questioning. Smoke shrugged and sliced another morsel of the medium-rare Chateaubriand on his plate. Priss wore a face of surprise.
    “I should never have said the things I did,” Thomas offered.
    “If you—if you believe something, you should stand up for your beliefs,” Priscilla responded.
    Anguish cut across the worried face of Thomas. “Well, you see . . . I’m not entirely sure I do believe all that. I’m not certain I wasn’t just parroting things I learned at home, and at Harvard.”
    Oh, Lord, Harvard , Smoke thought. Spare us that. Thomas correctly read the expression on the big gunfighter’s face.
    “They have some professors there who are opposed to this entire westward movement. There’s a poem they like to quote, it starts, ‘Lo! The noble redman.’ ”
    Smoke made a face of disgust. “I’ve heard it.”
    “They say you westerners are destroying the land, the animals, the last noble savage race. And that it is the fault of guns that it is happening.”
    Smoke Jensen blinked, then blurted without thinking, “Do you think we should go back to using spears and stone clubs?”
    “That’s not the point. They contend that we don’t belong out here,” Thomas answered painfully.
    " They don’t belong out here, that’s one thing for certain,” Smoke declared flatly “Nor their ideas.”
    “That’s silly, Thomas,” Priscilla prodded her husband.
    “Yes, yes it is. At least I’m beginning to think so.” To Smoke, he offered, “We owe you our lives. Priss was right, if it hadn’t been for you and your guns . . .” Thomas shrugged and raised his hands plams up in surrender.
    “I think there’s some hope here,” Sally pronounced her judgment.
    Later that night, the young couple patched up their quarrel on the observation platform. Thomas moved back into the second compartment. And Smoke and Sally Jensen had a delightful night, doing terribly naughty things in the lower bunk of their room.

    Thomas and Priscilla Henning left the train at Kansas City for a stern wheeler bound down the Missouri to the Mississippi and New